


Cause That's What High School's All About

by fernlyan_epho



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:28:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fernlyan_epho/pseuds/fernlyan_epho
Summary: Jessica is surprised that Paul has invited a girl over to work on homework. Irulan braces for a stressful senior year. Feyd decides this year will be different.--The High School AU I've been dreaming of for a week straight.
Relationships: Paul Atreides/Chani Kynes
Comments: 25
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Where Do You Belong?" from the Mean Girls Musical
> 
> I hope you enjoy this! Writing it has been a fun little indulgence.

_Tomorrow’s rain will have been a long time coming,_ Jessica thought. She was standing on the second-floor terrace of the loveliest house on Caladan Street, drinking expensive coffee and wondering whether or not to switch off the lawn sprinklers. At nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, she had already gone to Pilates, been in contact with the local art society about their auction, and RSVP-ed to whatever charity gala the Corrino’s were hosting next month.

Leto had taken Alia to the park, and Paul had yet to wake up. He had been up late reading, a flashlight under his covers as if that would stop Jessica from knowing what he was up to. Jessica wondered if she should be worried that he seemed to lack any real sense of rebellion. Surely fifteen-year-old boys should be getting into trouble. She would ask Leto.

The early-fall sun beat down on her bare shoulders, and she turned to head inside to shower and plan the rest of the day. 

But as she did, she noticed a car turning onto the street. This was not especially notable—though this was a rather quiet subdivision, it was not an entirely silent one—; however, it was a rather old car, and not in a rich, vintage way, and that was a curious sight. Even more curious was that it parked in front of her house.

She hurried downstairs so that she could meet the surprise visitor promptly. She didn’t think it would be anyone who would mind that she was still in leggings. They were terribly expensive leggings, after all, and people who drove cars like that and showed up unannounced weren’t really entitled to high expectations about what one wore.

The doorbell rang, Jessica counted a second, and opened the door with a cultivated smile.

On the front step was a girl about Paul’s age, though she had to be a year older if she drove herself here. She was skinny in a fairy-way, with tawny hair that had clearly taken effort to style. Her sundress—a lovely yellow color Jessica could never pull off—was tidy, cute yet youthfully modest. It was something Jessica admired about the middle class; the Corrino girls were always in skirts a few inches too short for good taste.

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Atreides,” the girl said. She had a sweet smile, though her bright blue eyes showed a hint of panic. “Is Paul home?”

Jessica blinked. _She has me at disadvantage_ , she thought. _Why didn’t Paul tell me he was expecting a visitor?_ “Why, yes, he is. Though I’m not sure if he’s ready yet.” She carefully omitted what he would be ready for, not knowing and not admitting to not knowing.

The girl looked at her phone to check the time. “I guess I am a little early,” she said, by way of apology.

“Well, please, come in. I’m sure he’ll be down soon.”

She walked in and sat carefully on a pristine white armchair, looking around in awe of the large, open parlor and keeping her fraying backpack as close to her feet as possible. She clearly felt out-of-place in a house like this.

 _Good_ , Jessica thought. Parlors were meant to inspire a little fear and wonder, and the girl’s caution indicated a good sense of manners.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” she immediately responded.

“Are you sure? I’m on my way to the kitchen anyway,” Jessica pushed. This was a test, of course, about politeness and increased pressure.

“Yes, I’m fine, really,” the girl insisted. “Thank you.”

Jessica went to the kitchen, mostly to give herself an unobserved place to process. _A girl! Paul had invited a girl over!_ Any guest was surprising in itself; Paul was a rather solitary child, more friends with his teachers than his peers. She realized she had just assumed that this girl was invited, but she seemed too scared to have just shown up. Asking about whether Paul was home was a nervous formality, not a genuine question.

But why hadn’t Paul told her that he had invited a friend? Paul should have known that Jessica would be home. Besides, inviting a friend over was nothing to hide. Though, again, he had never done it. _Does the novelty of it make it more or less likely that this has romantic ends? Would Paul invite a date over without having ever had a friend over? Or would romantic intention be the factor which finally made him reach out?_

Jessica spared half a second to consider that she supposed she didn’t have proof that Paul was even into girls. But this little thing was far too pretty for Paul to not have noticed. _Those bright blue eyes in such a warm, dark face!_ Jessica thought again of the Corrino girls. This was a genuine kind of pretty they’d never have.

She walked back with a glass of water, to keep the excuse.

The girl sitting as still as she had been when Jessica left, typing quickly, probably texting Paul that she was here. For her sake, Jessica hoped her son was awake.

He must have been, because he was at the bottom of the stairs less than a minute later.

“Hi, Chani, I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Paul was dressed well, but that was no surprise, even on a Saturday morning. His hair was rather well-arranged, though, which meant that he had been awake for longer than Jessica’s estimation. He, too, brought his backpack.

Jessica stared at her son, expectantly. Her expression clearly read, _would you care to explain yourself?_

“Mother, I see you’ve met Chani,” Paul started.

“Chani,” Jessica repeated.

“We’re in Calculus together; I suggested we could do homework together, down at the library and,”—a brief pause not unnoticed by his mother—“maybe go get lunch after.”

Chani’s smile was shy, her expression a little dreamy. _So, this_ is _a date!_ Jessica concluded. _Or at least an attempted one. Oh, to be a teenager, needing plausible deniability just to spend time with someone._

“It’s nice to meet you Chani,” Jessica offered her hand, which Chani shook with only a little panic behind her eyes. _Yes,_ Jessica thought, _do notice that you didn’t introduce yourself until now_. “It’s kind of you to offer to drive my son to the library. I’m sure he’ll be thoughtful enough to pay for lunch.”

Paul blushed furiously. It really was remarkable how in a few seconds, his mother could 1. Make it clear that he had not told her about Chani, 2. Point out he was too young to drive himself, and 3. Draw attention to the ambiguous date portion of this activity.

Jessica was amused by his embarrassment. _Poor thing._ _But what good were mothers if they didn’t embarrass their children a little?_

“Is there a time you need to be back by?” Chani directed her question to Paul, clearly hoping for some support in this conversation, as well as a way out.

Paul, still pink to the tips of his ears, turned to Jessica.

“I have a meeting with Mrs. Fenring in the afternoon, but your father and sister should be home by then. Dinner is at seven.” She turned to Chani, with a smile as if they were conspiring, “In short, you may have him all afternoon.”

Chani swallowed and nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Atreides. Paul?”

Paul took a few seconds, staring silently as if pre-emptively experiencing the explanatory conversations he would have with both women, and probably his father as well. He shook himself out of it and nodded quickly. “Yes, we should probably head out. See you later, Mother.”

He gave Jessica a quick hug and walked Chani to the door. Chani visibly perked up when he opened the door for her. _How sweet,_ Jessica thought.

She watched them get into the car, already laughing and talking excitedly, without the pressure of parental presence.

 _Half an hour ago I was worried he wasn’t getting into trouble_. Jessica wondered. _And now he’s being driven to the library by a girl whose last name I still don’t know._

_I will have to talk to Leto about this, won’t I._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> High! School! A! U!
> 
> The main idea behind this was the fact that if Paul and Chani hook up at age fifteen, they deserve to do it in used cars like the rest of us. In short: I don't have a plot right now, I just want to experiment with little character interactions. We'll certainly be meeting those Corinno girls, and dealing with the Harkonnens will be a whole thing too. Let's see what happens! (PTA drama? Homecoming court? What are the odds the science teacher has actually killed a man?) 
> 
> When it gets more high-school-focused, the rating might go up for language. 
> 
> Last note: I could justify "Mrs. Atreides" by citing "history will call us wives" but more importantly it's the hottest thing my brain has gifted me and I won't deny myself a "Mrs. Atreides" fantasy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey just a quick content warning, there'll be a few references to some vaguely disordered eating. It's not especially emotional or graphic, but I was a teenage ballerina so I know I have a more casual relationship to these topics than some people. If this will upset you, please be careful!

_Knowing about something doesn’t save you from it._

It was something Irulan had written in her diary the night before, and now it was neatly typed out at the top of a document saved as “Take A Stand – Sept.” She changed the font and saved it again. She was hungry, as she always was these days. Earlier in the summer, her sister Chalice had laughed at her fondness for the ice cream truck, and though it was probably aimed to mock immaturity, Irulan quietly eliminated dessert from her diet and with the start of school, lunch too. _What a dreadful cliché I’m becoming,_ she thought, noticing that she was once again out of Diet Coke. 

She looked around the bustling library. These few tables in the corner were reserved by the Student Journalism Association, of which she was the president. She waved over a boy who was working on a useless piece about a campaign to have a community garden.

“Hi, yes, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I need you to run an errand for me,” she began. The poor thing was practically bouncing at the opportunity to help her. _Because I’m the president or because I’m a pretty girl?_ “Could you run down to the vending machine and get me a Diet Coke? I just have this idea that I need to get down and I know if I stand up I’ll lose it. Here, let me give you some quarters.”

The boy sent on his way, Irulan refocused on her article.

She had thought of it yesterday morning. 6:15: the sun hadn’t risen yet, but she was awake, just as she always was, meticulously applying her makeup while she waited for her hair to dry. It was a stupid waste of her time. The first week of September and she was already exhausted by her schoolwork; she should take these forty minutes to sleep.

She knew it was ridiculous. She knew makeup culture was a grand corporate scheme to make money off of insecure teenage girls and adult women who needed to adhere to unfair standards of professionalism. She also knew it was related to the normalization of pedophilia, that it was deeply problematic that she should be expected to be sexy at age seventeen; hell, age fifteen, fourteen. She had helped Wensicia contour her face for her middle school dance.

But she could talk about it until she passed out and it wouldn’t exempt her from it. There might be a few girls in her year who had found ways around it, but she wasn’t sure how. It wasn’t like Irulan was some vapid bitch whose entire worth was contained in her face. She had good grades and excelled at her extra-curriculars. In addition to running the school paper and associated journal, she was involved with the literary magazine, and student council. Outside of school, she helped her mother run charity events to great success, and frequently appeared in her father’s political campaigns.

But she hadn’t gone more than a day without makeup in years. She wasn’t even sure her parents would recognize her barefaced.

The boy came back with the Diet Coke, a little flushed from having hurried. _Perhaps if being pretty weren’t such a useful thing to be._

Irulan typed away, trying to explain feminist theory in a cute, accessible way. Why couldn’t she give it up? Would her mother let her appear at her charity galas if she looked less than a photoshopped magazine cover? What biting words would Chalice have for her? Were either of these women at fault, having been taught these standards by their mothers, and by the increasingly materialistic world? Was she herself at fault for conforming out of fear? Or more damningly, was she bound to this by her own self-doubt?

She read the last paragraph and deleted it. Her confessional tone had begun to veer into whining, and an opinion piece wasn’t meant to be a diary. That’s what diaries were for.

She put her head in her hands and tried to will better words to come.

“Hi, Irulan.” She looked up. It was Paul Atreides. 

“Oh, hi Paul.” She smiled and minimized the window. She was too hungry to edit it now, anyway, which was of course relevant to the point but she wasn’t ready that kind of self-reflection. A distraction was good. “What’s up?”

He looked around at the library, made some unknown assessment, and pulled up a chair. As per usual, he sat silent for a few seconds before speaking. Irulan, used to this, waited patiently.

She liked Paul. They had been acquainted for most of their lives, with their parents in the same social echelons. For one embarrassing summer in middle school, she had mistaken her familiarity and fondness for romantic sentiment, and spent a silly amount of time hiding from him in the bathroom at Cotillion, but fortunately this passed. Now she thought of him as a friend, or perhaps a brother.

With a quiet conspiratorialism, Paul leaned forward and asked, “What do you know about Chani? Chani Kynes?”

She ran through her well-organized mental catalogue of names and faces. _Chani Kynes?_ “I don’t know a Chani. Kynes? Like the AP Enviro teacher?”

“Yeah I think that’s her dad. But I don’t know. Are you sure you don’t know her? She said you were in Econ together.”

Irulan shrugged. “It’s, like, the first week of school, Paul. I have Econ tomorrow; I’ll see if she’s there. Why? What do you want to know?”

“Why do you think?”

“Ah! So, the ever-unaffected Paul Atreides has a little crush!” She teased. He made a face and looked around nervously. 

“I asked her to hang out last Saturday,” he said, quietly. “Do homework and get lunch. I really like her. We talked like, all afternoon.”

Something was different about Paul. He had always been an even-tempered kid, reserved but not awkward, pleasant and strangely unbothered. He still was, now, but there was something more serious in his expression. She was annoyed and she wasn’t sure why. _What a horrible woman I’m becoming._

“You went on a like a seven-hour date with this girl and you don’t know if her dad is your teacher?”

“It’s, like, the first week of school, Irulan!” He used her own words back at her. “Besides I don’t know if it was quite a date.”

“Did you pay for her lunch?”

“Yes of course.”

“That’s a date. That’s not even pretending to not be a date.”

Paul waited, knowing she would have more to say.

“You went on a date with a girl you like! That’s a good thing! Actually, it’s very impressive; you got it right on the first try!”

Despite her somewhat-mocking tone, Paul permitted himself a small wistful smile.

“So, what do you want me, for, anyway? Are you telling me that Paul Atreides, the boy who is so observant he predicted our Cotillion teacher’s secret divorce accurate to the week, wants me to spy on the girl he likes so he can get a second opinion about if she likes him back?”

“You don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

“Don’t call girls _bitches_ , Paul. I’ll tell your mom.” He was right, though. She should be happier for her friend. _This skipping-lunch thing wasn’t going to work out long-term if it made her this sour._

“Sorry. Anyway, yes. I mean, no, don’t spy on her. I just wanted to know what you thought of her. You know that your opinion of a girl has real power around here.” 

_Well that’s sad_ , Irulan noted. _Not false, but sad_. Perhaps that would be “Take A Stand - Oct.” She could make a whole recurring column about how her life was a series of lessons in how being a teenage girl was just repeating patterns laid out for you, however distasteful you might find them. 

“Anything you want to know? Besides whether her dad is your teacher? Because even by the second date that’s already an awkward question to ask.”

“What do you think about my bringing her to your parents’ event next weekend?”

“Would you mother even let you?”

“My mother doesn’t tell me no. She just implies things really heavily and I do what she wants.”

Irulan laughed at this. Mrs. Atreides was quite a woman. Perhaps she should talk to her, ask how to be beautiful without it consuming you. The thought sobered her, abruptly.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m a teenage girl in a world where that will never be enough,” she responded.

“I see,” Paul said.

 _He’s too smart to try and argue with me_ , she noted. It was refreshing.

“You should be careful,” he offered. “My mother will notice you’re not eating.”

“I’m eating,” she said, instinctively.

“Okay,” Paul replied, once again opting out of fighting her. She had made his point, anyway. People who were eating didn’t insist they were with such swiftness. “Text me about Chani?”

“Sure.”

“See you next weekend, then, if not before.” They shared a smile and a wave.

As he left her to her article, Irulan muttered, sarcastic for her own benefit, “Save a dance for me.”

_Could she make it through the year like this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Irulan! Being a teenage girl can feel like just as much a prison as being a pawn of galactic politics.
> 
> I had an interesting time with her because she's kind of a queen and kind of a bitch but she's never quite a queen bitch. More a Heather McNamara than a Heather Chandler, I guess. Clearly she's beautiful and rich and powerful, but I don't see why this should preclude her from being friends with Paul. I'm reading Dune Messiah now and though she's pushed around by everyone to the point of being moderately evil sometimes, I don't think she likes being evil. Also she clearly is competent enough to be a productive secretary and council member while being an extraordinarily prolific writer so she's not as stupid as people percieve her to be. 
> 
> I hope this lives up to my other writing about her. It's not quite "and he is kind, too," but I think they describe the same girl. I had a bit more trouble negotiating tone here, and though I'm happy with what I came up with, I think it'll take more work. Which will be fun! 
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a minor content warning for the Harkonnens, being, well, Harkonnens. It's canon-typical predatory behavior, though perhaps worse for it being in a more familiar setting. I trust you guys to look out for yourselves if this is upsetting.

Feyd enjoyed the steady thud of the car window against his skull. There was probably some appeal to the dull pain, and to the predictable, lulling rhythm, but most importantly it drowned out his brother’s extended monologue.

It was undoubtedly just variations on the themes which had been rediscussed every conversation this summer, anyway. Popular topics included how Feyd was spoiled with a fancy private school, how said private school was fucking weird for not only having fencing but for caring about it, how Feyd’s success in fencing was not sufficiently masculine, and how Feyd needed to be careful about these things, given… you know… things.

 _What tedious insinuation_ , Feyd thought. Surely by this point his brother could openly admit their uncle’s predilection for lithe, pretty boys. _It’s not like I can stop the way he looks at me. And certainly_ fencing _isn’t the main concern, fuckhead._

He hadn’t understood, when his uncle had volunteered to act as legal guardian for him—eleven and precociously delinquent—why his brother had hesitated and had quietly insisted Feyd lock his door _every night_ with a scary kind of seriousness Feyd had never seen before, or again. He hadn’t understood why every few months there was another household employee, some cool, boyishly handsome young man, nominally a gardener or a pool attendant or a driver, and why Feyd never saw them work, and then never saw them again.

But he was sixteen, now, and not stupid. The amount of money alone would be enough to tip him off to something out of place. Whatever his uncle’s ostensible occupation was—advisor? consultant? contractor?—it alone couldn’t possibly pay enough to support this kind of lifestyle. This was the wealth of procuring flesh for the powerful, and perhaps drugs, though he wasn’t sure on that one.

What did he care, anyway? His uncle’s favor meant he lived in a house at least three times the size of Rabban’s (admittedly generous) city apartment, he had his own car before he could even drive, he went to the same school as the governor’s daughters, and most importantly he had the freedom to pursue whatever whim or interest he liked, so long as he listened attentively at dinner and disappeared when asked. Rabban wasn’t wrong that Feyd was rather spoiled. _Jealous, asshole? Missed out on your chance to become whatever monster you think I’m becoming?_

It had happened this way: Rabban, working some façade of a government job provided by their uncle, had proven inadequate supervision for pre-teen Feyd, whose hobbies were, in their entirety, getting in fights and terrorizing his teachers. After a fraught few weeks of whispered phone conversations and tense interviews with his strange, wealthy uncle, it had been concluded that what Feyd needed was direction and structure; that his grades and his conversational ability—as well as the skill with which he performed his deviant hobbies—indicated an inquisitive mind and a determined spirit. His uncle would enroll him in private school, insist on more acceptable combat activities (thus the fencing), and train Feyd to be a productive member of society, if a loosely amoral one. Rabban would look after Feyd in the summers.

As the car hurdled down the highway, Feyd felt a twinge of something that might be anxiety. The unpleasant brutishness of his brother never bothered him more than a headache, while his uncle’s expectations sometimes gnawed at him in uncomfortable ways. What sort of man was he being molded into? Maybe he did care a little. _Gross_.

Still, Feyd was glad the summer was ending.

Not that it had been a bad summer. In fact, it had been a rather enjoyable summer. When Rabban wasn’t doing whatever nonsense he called work, he was abusing their uncle’s country club membership, and Feyd tagged along. While he had no interest in golfing or discussing stocks with boring, self-aggrandizing men, he had found quite an interest in their bored, vapid daughters and so the summer had been, well, educational at least. 

Feyd let his thoughts wander to a particularly obliging blonde in a linen closet. It had turned out that she wasn’t a natural blonde, but before Feyd could really enjoy the memory of that discovery (and those subsequent), the car hit a bump and his head hit the window with more of an impact than he’d like.

“You’re not even fucking listening, are you?”

 _What do you fucking think?_ “Of course I am.”

“You know you can’t talk about how football gave me concussions if you willingly thwack your head against the window for a fucking hour.”

Feyd had memorized the statistics on brain damage for this exact conversation, but rolled his eyes instead of inciting an argument.

“We’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Rabban said, as if Feyd hadn’t been on this trip countless times. “So you’d better find a better mood in that time.”

Feyd resisted the desire to flip his brother off, instead sitting up and stretching slightly, arms across his torso, then over his head. The disgruntled way his brother hmphed when Feyd leaned over to touch his toes was more gratifying anyway. _Yeah, that’s right. You think I’m some spoiled, bitchy pansy but I could beat the shit out of you, fatass._

His uncle had deemed this an important enough occasion to meet them at the gate to the long driveway. He greeted Rabban with a dignified, masculine handshake, and held his arms out for Feyd to embrace him.

“Dear boy, you get taller every time I see you.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Uncle.” Feyd said, evenly, willing his shoulders to relax.

“You mean it’s good to be leaving your brother’s apartment. Let’s get you a proper meal, hmm? And then you can tell me about your summer adventures over a game of chess.” He clapped Feyd on the back and started toward the house. The luggage was unloaded by two young men who could only be a few years older than Feyd, at most.

Rabban tried to make eye-contact with Feyd, to find camaraderie in shared distaste. Feyd ignored him. _That’ll teach you to berate your allies_.

As they walked, Feyd assumed the familiar role of deferential protégé, adjusting his sullen pout to careful attentiveness, hands behind his back, head tilted just so. For a second, his revulsion was directed at himself, at how his uncle commanded such obedience in him, but he dismissed this quickly. _It’s merely the clever thing to do_ , he assured himself. _Better this than whoever I’d be if I’d stayed with Rabban._

He would miss those country club girls, though. _I wonder if Governor Corrino’s girls are natural blondes_.

 _That’s what this year would be for_ , he decided. Not the crude curiosity for the Corinno girls, though he wouldn’t write it off. No, this year he would learn how to be both the boy his uncle demanded he be—high-achieving and diligent, analytical and politely pitiless—and the boy (youth? man?) he had become this summer—self-assured, performatively apathetic, and not above using pilfered alcohol as bait for pretty girls.

“Your faraway smile is noted, boy.” His uncle’s tone was familiar: not quite disappointed, not quite suspicious, but still something which required care. 

“Perhaps the matter is more appropriate for after dinner,” Feyd said, with the most accommodating expression he could find.

“Don’t get too clever with your uncle, Feyd-Rautha,” he admonished.

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

 _And maybe I’ll stick around next time he requests I make myself scarce. It could be quite edifying._ While there was danger in some of his uncle’s vices, he was certain there was also pleasure, and definitely power. _Fuck_ , he smirked. _This could be a good year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feyd, Feyd, Feyd. Was there ever hope for you? Is there still hope for you? I always think of Lady Fenring's observation that he would never grow fat. However fucked his family made him, he was somehow a little different. What could have been if he had, like, a single adult in his life who wasn't despicable? And how much of his unpleasantness is just being a slightly traumatized teenage boy?
> 
> I feel obliged to recommend svelgiatevi's writings on House Harkonnen. They have really great insight into the characters, and I've been greatly enjoying her depictions of Feyd as a kid. 
> 
> Sorry for the shorter chapter; I should be writing midterm papers, but this is slightly more fun. Also, I see that this chapter didn't really lean into the AU, but I felt like I ought to establish a few things before Feyd just like, showed up in Chemistry. Maybe after midterms I'll actually write about this fancy private school. 
> 
> So thank you for reading! I'll be back post-midterms, promise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the length makes up for the fact this is a very late update!

Chani would have said she didn’t like surprises.

Surprises were an empty breadbox in the morning, or a heat advisory canceling your last softball game of the summer, or your father getting a job at the bougie prep school across town, and your subsequent transfer. 

Surprises were never an extra muffin on the counter, or a thunderstorm to break the drought, and they certainly weren’t ever the boy assigned to sit next to you in calculus having the greenest eyes you had ever seen, or the sweetest shy smile, or the remarkable confidence to ask you out even though he couldn’t even drive yet.

Well, apparently sometimes they were.

On the first day, they hadn’t even spoken.

She had taken special notice when he sat down, interested in the way he kept his belongings close, the way he didn’t take up more space than was his. It was a consideration which wasn’t practiced by his peers. She had stared a second too long, and he acknowledged her with an apologetic smile. It was no more than a courtesy required by assigned seating, but though she managed to return it politely, she was caught off-guard by his boyishly handsome, almost delicate features: his strikingly straight nose, his pretty pink lips, the subtle wave of his deep brown hair. She turned back to the front before her face could betray her.

 _Dammit, Chani_ , she told herself. _You specifically promised to not get caught up by any of these rich boys_.

Dr. Hawat was an old-fashioned teacher, even more so than the rest of the rather pretentious faculty. (Chani included her father in this, though lovingly). His mannerisms were archaic, as though he had been teaching calculus to their grandfathers and just never stopped. Chani was rather fond of this; it meant no wasted time on ice breakers or get-to-know-yous. She didn’t know what she’d do if she had to talk about how she had spent the past few months with this beautiful boy who probably used _summer_ as a verb.

As the syllabus was passed around, Chani tried to make an insufferable personality for him—what kind of car he drove, what sort of terrible literary opinions he harbored, the kind of politics he bandied about on twitter—but when he offered her a syllabus and a gentle smile, she forgot it entirely.

 _Don’t fight a losing battle_ , Chani’s heart said. _He seems different. Really nice_.

 _You have no basis for any of that_ , her reason supplied. _He’s a rich boy who doesn’t know what your life is like and doesn’t care_.

 _But what a kind smile!_ her heart countered. 

In profile, Chani noticed his long eyelashes, his sharp jawline, the way his finger tapped quickly on his lips as he read to himself.

 _Fuck it,_ she decided. _He really did seem nice_.

On the second day, she heard his voice for the first time.

Class began with no preamble, Dr. Hawat launching into lecture at a speed which had Chani scrambling to get her notes out in time to get it all down. As her neighbor had arrived only a few seconds before the bell, this meant Chani missed any chance to greet him with a smile or a polite hello. Ten minutes into class and she hadn’t even spared time to notice if he was as lovely today as he had seemed yesterday.

Which was fine. It wasn’t like she had spent much of the previous evening thinking about how she might introduce herself, or coming up with innocuous small talk questions, or anything.

One of Dr. Hawat’s quirks was not fielding answers to his questions, but directly asking students. One would know if an answer was required of them if their name had been substituted for punctuation.

A sample: “So, given the power rule, wherein d divided by dx of x to the nth power is equal to what, Mr. Atreides?”

Her neighbor answered, in a clear, articulated tenor, “n times x to the n minus one.”

“To the _power_ of n minus one, yes. So we’ll put in our function…”

Chani had looked to her right as soon as he had spoken, and felt her heart melt in her chest when he blushed at the minor correction. He had nodded and bit his lip, fixing his eyes on his notes as color spread across his face.

 _Mr. Atreides_ , _was it?_ There was no reason for that to make her smile, but there was something charming about it. Just because it belonged to him.

Before Chani could either berate herself for frivolity or loose herself in it entirely—was she too old to doodle his name in the margins?—she was startled back to attention with a,

“…equals two, the derivative is what, Miss Kynes?”

 _Fuck_. She willed herself to focus, assuming the question was substituting two for x, and did the math as quickly as she could. Just as he opened his mouth to ask another student, she blurted out, “32.”

“Very good, Miss Kynes,” Dr. Hawat said, with a hint of a smile, and continued his lecture.

Though her heart was still beating in her ears, she was satisfied with her performance. She allowed herself a smirk. Picking up her pencil, she thought she could feel Mr. Atreides looking at her. She ventured a glance over, but his head snapped back to the front.

She hoped it was an admiring glance, but she’d settle for a somewhat envious one.

On the third day, he came with more minutes to spare before the bell.

“Excuse me,” he began.

The formality almost made Chani laugh. “Hey,” she smiled, “Mr. Atreides?” She said it with the tone of a joke, but it wasn’t as though she knew his first name.

“Paul,” he supplied. “Paul Atreides.”

“Chani Kynes,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Chani.” Any humor found in the strangeness of this introduction vanished when she found herself locked in eye contact with the most sincere green eyes she had ever seen. She swallowed, feeling her face heat up, but didn’t look away. Neither did he. 

“You did a nice job yesterday.”

Chani shrugged, still a little lost in his bright eyes. “You, too.”

“No, really. Hawat can be intimidating, if you don’t know he just wants what’s best for us.”

She finally looked away, laughing a little. “Well math is the same wherever you go, so I have that.”

Rather than pursue this, he rifled through his folder, pulling out his homework. “So, for number four here…”

Chani wasn’t certain what he meant by this, asking for homework help instead of about what she meant about “wherever you go”. Perhaps she had misread the introduction. Sighing, she pulled her hair back as she looked at his work. A quick glance showed he had done exactly what she had. There weren’t even eraser marks which might indicate a struggle. _He’s planned this_ , she realized. _He didn’t respond to my remark because he scripted this whole thing_.

 _How exceedingly charming._

Looking back at him, she saw him regarding her profile, a little wide-eyed. If he was embarrassed, he didn’t show it.

She smirked, hoping he’d realize she’d seen through his plan. “It looks just right.”

“Thanks.”

The bell rang, and Hawat’s lecture started up, and the rest of class was spent sneaking as many furtive glances as they could afford.

On the fourth day, they started passing notes.

She had almost thought it a mistake. He had brushed eraser shavings off the side of his desk, and a small scrap of paper fell with them. It was folded neatly, and she wondered why he didn’t pick it up; it seemed at odds with his usual conscientiousness. She thought to pick it up for him, but when she reached for it, she realized that was what he intended.

She had a moment of panic as Dr. Hawat ended a sentence with a name, but it wasn’t hers. She quickly opened the note.

_Do you like poetry?_

It was written in a uniformly slanted hand, with slightly curved edges on the _t_ and the _k_. Chani thought she might be dreaming. _Could people be better than you dreamed them?_

She tapped her pencil thinking of a response.

_Some say love’s a little boy,_

_And some say it’s a bird,_

_Some say it makes the world go around,_

_Some say that’s absurd._

She brushed it off her desk as surreptitiously as she could, just in time for,

“and thus, with the quotient rule, our denominator will be what, Miss Kynes?”

“Oh, um, g of x squared.”

“Yes, which in this problem is...?”

“Uh, x to the power of four plus… two x squared plus one?”

“Thank you, Miss Kynes.”

She flushed. Getting the answer right didn’t mean she hadn’t been asked as punishment for passing notes. She looked over at Paul with an expression to fake-admonish him, but when he made eye contact, he looked quickly to the floor, where he had already written a response.

She rolled her eyes, but picked it up, the giddiness of whatever this was overriding the shame of being called out.

_Auden! Nice._

_I must admit to knowing the Romantics better:_

_She walks in beauty like the night_

_Of cloudless climes and starry skies;_

_And all that’s best of dark and bright_

_Meet in her aspect and her eyes…_

Chani felt almost dizzy with the implications.

_I should know the Romantics better than I do._

_The minute I heard my first love story,_

_I started looking for you, not knowing_

_how blind that was._

_Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere._

_They’re in each other all along._

_(If poetry is poetry in translation)._

When he opened it, she could almost hear his breath stop. He turned to her and mouthed “ _Rumi?_ ”

She nodded. He tucked it thoughtfully into his books.

On the fifth day, he didn’t talk to her all class.

She had a hard time focusing on lecture, as she had come prepared with more poems. She had thought it a worthy use of an hour of her evening, pouring through anthologies for bits of verse she thought could catch him off-guard, the way the Byron had almost stopped her heart. But he didn’t even look at her when he rushed in as the bell rang.

She thought she could start their note-passing. There was no rule that he initiate, after all. But every time she started, she felt strange, and every time she looked over, he didn’t even turn her direction.

He was called on a few times, as was she. He got nothing wrong. She did, her brain busy analyzing everything she may have said or done that was too weird, too eager, or maybe even too middle-class. She had been right the first day, about rich boys.

 _Dammit, Chani_. _What the hell did you think was happening?_

By the end of class she felt appropriately ashamed of her week of what had apparently been fruitless, frivolous pining. She quickly packed up her books and walked quickly to the door, eyes downcast.

“Wait, Chani,” he called out.

She stopped and turned back, face as neutral as she could manage.

“Here.” He handed her a slip of paper, folded pristinely into thirds.

She silently opened it.

On it was written out an address and a phone number, with an invitation at the bottom.

_An apology first, for ignoring you this class. I am quite new to this and appropriately nervous. I probably shouldn’t tell you that, but I will._

_I must also admit to being fifteen, and unable to drive. I’d like to spend tomorrow morning at the library with you. To work on calculus, of course. If I might prevail upon you for a ride, I will be ready at 10 a.m._

_Sincerely,_

_Paul Atreides_

When she looked up, he had left. 

She went, of course. And though it began with a perilous conversation with his overwhelming mother, it had been as perfect as anything could be. They had finished their calculus in an hour, but spent the day sharing poems and talking about books and criticizing old philosophers. He bought them lunch, and then ice cream, and as they walked though the park, she slipped her hand into his.

And if Chani needed any more reason to change her policy on surprises, their afternoon walk was interrupted by the most glorious thunderstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I unfortunately quit math after precalculus, but self-conscious of this inadequacy in my education, had my friend teach me the basics one summer in college. The problems are pulled from my notes from that. Let me know how I did on that, haha. 
> 
> Hawat here is very much based on a Latin professor I had, who had that exact style of lecture and question. It was my favorite class that semester, believe it or not.
> 
> The poems are :  
> W. H. Auden: O Tell Me The Truth About Love  
> Lord Byron: She Walks in Beauty  
> Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks 
> 
> Though they quote the openings, I think the whole poems are also quite apt, if I do say so myself. (God, these two!) So check them out! They're quite good. 
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading!!


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